


Tear Apart My Soul

by Janie94



Category: Men's Football RPF, Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Ancient Rome, M/M, Slavery, True Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-29
Updated: 2019-09-25
Packaged: 2020-10-28 00:44:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20769689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Janie94/pseuds/Janie94
Summary: When two young Celts get captured by the Roman Empire, they are torn apart cruelly - one of them becoming the slave of a Roman, the other a gladiator in the Colosseum. When all hope seems lost, will they be able to see each other again one day?





	Tear Apart My Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mariothellama](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariothellama/gifts).

> My dearest mariothellama,
> 
> Happy birthday!!! I hope you have a nice day and a good year ahead. May all your wishes come true. ♥  
This is my birthday present for you and I really hope you will like it. It's very different from what I usually write and if you don't like it, just tell me and I will delete it without protest. This story surely is not everyone's cup of tea.  
I got inspired by your comment on a story of mine last year where you mentioned that you kind of lost that love you felt for your once favorite ship and this is my attempt of maybe making you like it again. I know you are away at the moment, so please don't hurry with commenting. This story will still be there in a week, two weeks or even a month.
> 
> Regarding the names:  
Marco = Maolán (Scottish Gaelic for 'warrior')  
Mario = Mael (Scottisch Gaelic for 'prince')  
Robert = Robertus Levantus (the name Blue_Night uses in her many wonderful Ancient Rome stories)

**Tear Apart My Soul**

**Chapter 1**

It happened too fast for Maolán to react.

One moment he was playfully chasing after Mael on the snow-covered meadow and the next moment the crows were scattering, flying away with loud, angered crowing. Then he saw them coming from the rocks behind.

Romans. Thirty, maybe forty of them approaching him fast.

Maolán could see Mael turning back, trying to reach his lover before them but he was too far away. Maolán pulled his dagger just in time, using his agility to duck from the sword swung his way and land a fast hit of his own against the thankfully not fully armed Roman.

The man let out a howl of pain as the blade cut his stomach but before Maolán could go on, various pairs of hands were wrapping around his arms and body, someone wrenching the dagger from his hand while another man was putting the tip of his sword threateningly against Maolán’s throat.

The blond froze, hearing the sounds of further fighting coming from behind him but he didn’t dare to turn around just to get his throat slit.

A moment later Mael was pushed down onto his knees beside him, blood dripping from a wound on his stomach. It wasn’t life-threating but Maolán still growled furiously, scowling up at the owner of the sword at his throat.

The man took off his impressive helmet – the one the Romans referred to as _galea_, so he was either a centurion or a Decurion. Probably the latter judging by the rest of his appearance. While his undershirt had stripes of red, the rest of his armor was rather ordinary contrary to the luxurious armor and cape of a centurion.

“What do we have here?” the man drawled with an arrogant grin. “Two Celtic savages.”

“We are not savages!” Maolán hissed angrily, his tongue stumbling over the Roman words. He could feel Mael subtly poking him from the side, throwing him a warning look to keep quiet.

The Decurion ignored his protests. “You should know better than to wander through our territory.”

This time it was Mael who spoke up, though in a more controlled tone than Maolán had done. “This land was given to us by the Gods. It is ours by birthright.”

The Decurion smirked. “We defeated you several time over the years, so it looks like our gods are stronger than yours. Now, what to do with you?”

He pretended to think and Maolán sneered at him. “Well, you could let us go and get off our land, you Roman filth!”

He had barely ended when the sword moved across his skin. The cut was not deep enough to injure him severely but it was a final warning.

“Watch your tongue, scum!” the Decurion retorted with dark eyes. “I would love to flog you into a bleeding pulp for your behavior but you won’t be worth anything on the slave market this way.”

Maolán’s blood ran cold even though he had expected this. He should probably be grateful to the gods that he would get to live. But the mere thought of becoming a hated Roman’s slave made bile rise in the back of his throat.

Beside him Mael straightened, pushing off the hand that was harshly gripping his shoulder. “You can’t do this! Our tribe will declare war on you!”

The Decurion shrugged. “One more barbaric tribe declaring war on us will not make much of a difference. It is freezing cold here and food from the merchants is very expensive. Selling two young slaves will ensure me and some of my men a few days of good food.”

Maolán snorted as he regarded the man’s fat belly. He seemed to already eat more than even their strongest warrior.

The Decurion jerked his head and Maolán was pulled onto his feet, Mael following shortly after. They were pushed into the direction of the Roman camp so harshly that Maolán slipped two times on the slippery ground, the mocking laughter of their enemies ringing in his ears.

The first time Mael was shouting at his captor until he was allowed to help Maolán up. The second time no one said a word as Mael moved forward to grab Marco, all of them hungry and not wanting the Celt to slow them down further.

It was evening by the time they reached the camp and Maolán and Mael were shoved into one of the tents. There was no fire and the wind was blowing mercilessly through the entrance. They were both shivering when one of the soldiers was tying them to the post, wrapping themselves around each other to keep warm.

Maolán felt cold and miserable, knowing with terrifying uncertainty that he would never see his family again. And soon he might lose Mael too, once they had been sold to different owners.

“It’s going to be fine,” Mael whispered into his hair as he held a trembling Maolán. His voice lacked conviction though. “We will stick together, somehow we will.”

Mael’s words were useless in this cruel world they lived in but Maolán couldn’t stand any more heartbreak, not yet.

So he believed the lie.

***

It took ten days until the merchants came to the camp, their carts full of food, spices, warm clothing and the slaves that had already been sold to them on their way.

They looked in an even worse state than the two Celts did, every single bone protruding from their malnourished bodies.

The slave merchant had a deep frown on his face as he talked to the Decurion, a frown that seemed to deepen with every passing minute.

They spoke too fast for Maolán to translate the Latin into his own language but he managed to get the last part.

“I can’t take two more slaves!” the merchant argued. “My cart is already overcrowded and I will be lucky if I even get them back to the ship down in_ Porta Lemane _with all of them still alive.”

The Decurion didn’t give up that easily though. “You really ought to take them for such a cheap price. I have seen them fight, they would make good gladiators in the arena.”

Maolán’s ears perked up at that. Being a slave to the Roman Empire was a nightmare either way but if they became gladiators, they wouldn’t have to serve vile old men. They might be able to win back their freedom. Maolán knew that it was an unlikely scenario, not many gladiators were gifted with the _Rudis_, the wooden sword that represented their freedom. But it was a small ray of hope in the darkness.

He spoke before he could even think about it. “We could walk by foot. We won’t slow you down, I promise.”  
The Decurion seemed angry that Maolán had dared to interrupt their talk, raising his hand ready to strike. But the merchant looked at him curiously.

“He can speak Latin?”

The Decurion grinned, realizing he had a new argument here. “They both can. Rather good for two barbarians, I might say.”

Maolán kept his challenging comment inside, knowing he needed to act at least a bit servile for both their sakes.

The merchant looked him up and down before doing the same with Mael. “They don’t look like strong fighters. But your judgement has never been wrong, Decurion, so I will take them for the 300 denarii instead of the usual 500.”

The other Roman had a sour look on his face but he nodded tersely. “300 denarii then.”

The merchant smirked before starting to count his golden coins and once he had handed the amount over, the Decurion stormed away angrily.

Maolán hid his relieved expression as he looked back at the merchant.

The man was two heads smaller than him, barely any hair left on his head and milky eyes staring at him intently. “Well then, we have exhausting weeks ahead. Get a move on, slave.”

Maolán looked away, anger bubbling strong in his chest at being called like this. He stuck out his hands, letting one of the men bind his wrists together with a thick rope. The same was done to Mael before the ends of the ropes were attached to the vehicle and the merchant finally walked to the front.

Mael smiled at him though it looked a bit dizzy. His wound had still not healed completely and the Romans hadn’t shown consideration for that, giving him the same amount of work as they had Maolán.

“I’m glad you did this,” the younger one said. “Maybe you can actually pull through it all and win back your freedom.”

“We both will!” Maolán replied, his voice allowing no argument. “Listen, I won’t leave here without you. So you will buckle up and get better again, so we can fight our way out!”

Mael chuckled but it looked pained and he was looking away suddenly. “They won’t let us both go, you know that. If you really want to please the Emperor and the crowds to earn your freedom, you will need to fight until death. We both know you have always been the better warrior of us.”

Maolán flinched as he followed Mael’s line of thought and he surged forward, his hand winding tightly around the back of his lover’s neck. “I will not kill you, never! We will find a way to make it work, I promise.”

Mael looked at him for a long moment then he leaned forward to place a chaste kiss onto the older one’s lips. “I love you, Maolán, no matter what happens.”

“Don’t do that,” the blond responded and for the first time since they had got here, his voice was filled with pain. “Don’t say goodbye, okay? I will figure out a way.”

Mael just smiled before pulling away, right in time as the cart began to roll forward and they were forced to move as well.

Now they were on their long way to Rome.

***

Maolán had no idea any longer how many days had passed when they finally passed the gates of Rome. He had stopped counting after 87 days.

His hope to earn back his freedom – once a flame inside of him – was now no more than a dull shadow.

He was in no condition to fight and neither was Mael. Unless the Romans gave them a few weeks to put on some weight and muscles again, they would both die in their first fight.

Every night they lay together, arms wrapped tightly around each other, exchanging some kisses before falling into deep slumber or vivid dreams of the meadows in early spring, both of them laughing loudly as they chased each other.

With his heart devoid of hope and strength Maolán yearned for nothing more than to feel Mael inside of him and chase away this emptiness and he was sure Mael felt the same. But they were always together with the other slaves and at night they were watched by at least one of the merchants, so there was no real opportunity to.

Holding each other had to be enough.

Rome was such a large and pompous city that Maolán couldn’t help staring despite his firm resolution to hate anything to do with Romans. The cottages in their home could not compare to the houses lining the streets of Rome, a city made of marvel and stone and yet bathing in light. For a moment he actually thought he had died and this was the afterlife but the people in the streets were so clearly Romans that Maolán had to look away, the beauty of the city paling against his hatred for their captors.

The merchants had decided to sell him, Mael and two younger boys to the richest slave master first, the one that bought only future gladiators.

As though the colosseum wasn’t an intimidating place already, the slave master was a bear of a man, more broad than huge, eying the four newcomers critically.

He had been deep in conversation with another Roman and Marco stared fascinated at the man’s face.

He was as tall as Maolán who usually towered over most Romans with ease. The man was wearing a light armor, one to show his military status rather than be used in a fight. Most prominent was the cuirass - a golden breast plate that covered his torso perfectly – with a vibrant red cape and the typical _pteruges_, stripes of black leather hanging from his belt, failing to hide his strong thighs. The man’s raven hair was cut short but their soft waves gave away what it would look like untamed.

Maolán stiffened when blue eyes met his and then just a second later Mael’s. The slave master however only glanced at them with boredom before addressing the merchant. “This all you’ve got for me this time?”

The merchant’s lips thinned in disdain and he couldn’t quite keep the snark out of his voice. “All four of them are stronger than they look. You are welcome to test them.”

The two young boys flinched visibly, their frightened eyes looking back at the slave master. Maolán chanced a quick look at Mael, finding those hazel eyes hardening with determination, his fingers twitching as though he wanted to reach out and take Maolán’s hand into his.

Mael suppressed a strained smile and looked up but he froze when he saw the raven haired Roman eying their subtle interaction with knowing eyes. The man didn’t look away and neither could Maolán, transfixed by this man who he knew with startling clarity could easily beat him in a fight.

Maolán wasn’t used to being the weaker one.

The slave master had been ranting on about fighting and the possibility of gaining honor when suddenly the raven-haired Roman raised his hand. Immediately the bulky slave master fell silent and bowed his head respectfully. The merchant did the same but he hissed when the four slaves just stood there. “Bow your heads, you fools!”

The two boys complied quickly while Maolán just straightened further in what he knew was childish protest. The Roman’s eyes settled on him, the intensity making Maolán’s knees buckle slightly but he fought against the urge to submit.

The expression in those blue eyes changed into something Maolán couldn’t quite define, then the man turned to Mael.

The younger one tensed up for a second as though he expected to get punished but then after an endless moment he relaxed a bit and dropped his head. Maolán felt the urge to jump in, feeling that there was more to this than just simple power play.

But then the Roman raised his voice. “My name is Tribunus Robertus Levantus. Once per year I choose the gladiator who pleased me and the crowds the most, to gift them their freedom.”

All four of them perked up at that but the Tribunus continued in the same insistent tone. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking this will be an easy feat. No few amount of fights leads to death. In here you won’t get second chances, either you live or you die. There is no friendship or comradery, the only loyalty you feel will be to your sword. You will be lucky enough if you manage to save your own skin.”

Maolán’s spark of hope crashed as sudden as it had ignited. He flinched when Robertus Levantus looked directly at him and jerked his head. “You and your friend may follow me.”

His tone allowed no argument and Maolán found himself stumbling after the Roman, Mael following him warily. The Tribunus led them down the stairs underground, one of the guards nodding his head in respect before taking the lead with a torch in his hand.

Maolán’s uneasiness grew with every passing second and he wracked his brain, wondering what such a high-ranking Roman could want from them. All the directions his thoughts ended up with made him tremble in fear and stay closer at Mael’s son – whether to protect him or be protected he didn’t quite know.

They stopped in a small room, illuminated by warm candlelight and a small window right under the roof showing the busy streets of Rome.

The room didn’t look like a prison or a torture chamber which was a bit better than the horror visions Maolán’s mind had come up with but he didn’t let himself be fooled.

They were nothing but slaves here.

The Tribunus gracefully slid into the biggest chair, motioning for both men to sit down opposite him. Mael already moved towards them but Maolán’s grabbed his arm and shook his head defiantly. He knew it was stupid, disobedience would only anger the Roman in front of them but he would rather die with dignity than obey any Roman.

The Tribunus smiled at him. “You are from Britannia, aren’t you?”

Marco’s eyes widened in surprise at hearing the Tribunus speak to them in his home language without the usual thick accent Romans had when they used their tongue and it took him a moment to answer. “Yes, we are.”

Robertus Levantus smiled encouragingly. “What are you called?”

Maolán only stared down at him with a frown, trying to decipher the strange man in front of him, trying to find out what intentions the Tribunus had.

Mael finally pulled at his hand, forcing him to sit down beside them. “My name is Mael and my friend here is called Maolán. Forgive him for his behavior, Tribunus, but he still needs time to come around.”

Robertus Levantus looked back at Maolán with challenge in his eyes. “I understand your feelings, warrior but you need to accept your fate very soon. From tomorrow on you will be trained to fight in the colosseum and you can’t be distracted by your wish to be home and safe.”

Maolán snorted. “And why would a patrician like you care what happens to me?”

Whatever sympathy the Tribunus must have harbored for him vanished immediately, his eyes hardening. “I’m beginning to ask myself the same thing.”

Before either of them could say more, Mael broke the silence. “He is not usually this dismissive, I can vow for that. He will learn manners.”

Maolán scowled at the younger one’s back. He was no child and would appreciate not being treated like one. But to his surprise Robertus Levantus shook his head. “No, I would rather like he stayed that way. Just like his name foretold he is a fighter through and through. His chances of survival are better if he keeps the fire of defiance alive until the very end.”

The Tribunus eyed Mael carefully. “You on the other hand strike me as more of a diplomat.” It was hard to say whether he thought of it as a good or bad thing and he didn#t seem enclined to enlighten the two Celts. Instead he stood up, clasping his hands behind his back as he started to pace the room in slow circles. The image of a predator struck Maolán’s mind and he tensed up.

“You have probably been wondering why I called you down here alone,” the Tribunus said and his voice sounded distant, as though a completely different man was speaking the words. “Well, I have been searching for a personal slave for a while now. I have several to take care of my daily business and to keep the house in good shape of course but I had never one to warm my bed in the night.”

Maolán’s blood ran cold and he instinctively reached for the dagger at his belt but his fingers grasped nothing but thin air. Because he was a slave and didn’t have a weapon any longer to defend himself.

He jerked forward, ready to fight the Roman with his bare hands but suddenly the tip of a sword was pointed to his throat.

Robertus Levantus’ eyes fixed him, cruelty distorting the edges of his handsome face. “Stay where you are. Otherwise the guards outside will kill you immediately.”

Maolán sneered angrily. “I don’t care what happens to me! I would rather die than let you lay a hand on my lover!”

The Roman chuckled, the sound echoing harshly from the walls. “Oh, I believe you, Maolán. But if you hurt me your precious friend will be killed along with you and we both know you would never risk his life, right?”

Maolán stared over at Mael with wide eyes, feeling trapped between killing the Roman threatening his beloved’s honor and surrendering to keep Mael save.

The latter spoke finally. “I will go with you, Tribunus Levantus. Just please don’t hurt Maolán.”

The blond Celt gaped in horror. Of course Mael would choose to save him, no matter what it would cost him. No matter he would fall into the hands of a Roman.

“Mael, what do you think you are you doing?”

But his lover’s hazel eyes were hard with determination. “Stay out of this, just once. This is my fight.”

The Tribunus reached out for Mael’s hand, pulling him closer to his side. “I’m sure the two of us will have a nice time together, Marius.”

Both Celts jerked at the name. Maolán shouldn’t be surprised, he knew that. Giving his slave a new name was just another way of gaining more power over him, taking away his identity.

Mael looked disgusted with himself when he responded. “Yes, Master.”

Maolán felt panic surge in his heart as he realized that this was really happening and not some bad dream he would wake up from any moment. “You will not touch him, Roman! I swear to the Gods, I will kill you!”

The Tribunus smirked. “You are a prisoner here, warrior. Your only chance to be free is to win every battle and earn the crowd’s love. Maybe then you will get your freedom back. But until that day comes, your precious love is mine to ravish.”

Maolán growled furiously and right now he wouldn’t have minded if he would get killed for it, he just wanted to see the arrogant Roman in front of him dead. But Mael raised his hand, his eyes pleading for him not to do something truly stupid. “It’s fine, my beloved. I will go with the Tribunus and if the Gods show mercy, you will earn back your freedom. And we might see each other again.”

The chances of that happening were smaller than a candlelight flickering in the dark but Maolán swore he would make it happen somehow.

He needed Mael like he needed the air to breathe. And now their fate lay in the hands of the Gods.

The Tribunus stepped forward, his sword now hanging uselessly from his side. The fiery expression in his eyes had dampened and he offered his hand in a warrior’s greeting. His voice was grave when he announced, “The only chance for you is to fight your way into the hearts of the people. If you manage that I promise you, I will grant you the freedom you earned.”

Maolán narrowed his eyes. “You know that I will kill you, right?”

Robertus Levantus smirked but it was warmer than ever before, making Maolán want to believe that this man was more than just the cruel Roman he had thought him to be. “Maybe. Or perhaps you will feel different about me by then.”

Maolán finally grabbed the offered forearm in return. “I wouldn’t bet on it, Tribunus. I will be laughing once I see the light fading from your eyes forever.”

He meant every word he had said. And he didn’t think the Tribunus was stupid enough to underestimate him.

But Robertus Levantus just smiled. “Until we meet again, Maolán. May Mars protect you on your dangerous path.”


End file.
